Drip Drip Drip
by YogaForever
Summary: Maybe he’d get over it. Yeah, maybe he would just get over it.


"_-My worst fears are letting out_

_He said why put a new address_

_On the same old loneliness_

_When breathing just passes the time_

_Until we all just get old and die_

_Now talking's just a waste of breath_

_And living's just a waste of death!"_

-Pete Wentz,

"Get Busy Living Or Get Busy Dying

(Do Your Part To Save the Scene and Stop Going To Shows)"

**Drip. Drip. Drip.**

By: Sweet Valentine Vampire

_Drip. Drip. Drip. _

It was amazing, he mused, just how many things went about making that at once simple and simultaneously infuriating noise. How many things that people just never noticed.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Yeah, like the world depended on it. Like, if you did not heed the dripping-drop sound effect that was so incredibly annoying, there wouldn't be an Earth tomorrow. He grunted, unimpressed. But, in the solitary almost-silence of his only space that belonged solely to him and no one else, he had to listen. Because it certainly wouldn't go away.

He swallowed. No. It _certainly_ wouldn't go away.

_Drip_. Went the water in the leaky sink. He'd stopped caring about fixing it. He knew it would break again a week later. What did it matter? The city completely funded him, payed his bills in return for helping keep Station Square safe.

_Drip_. Went the oil as it fell into the hairs of his arm and onto the cold cement that greeted it with a dirty, hard resting place.

_Drip_. Went the blood slowly leaking away from the fresh cut in his forearm. The oil was making it sting. He'd probably have to go rinse himself off in the leaky sink.

Dammit.

He gritted his teeth, wondering for how much longer he could take it. He was perfectly content to mess with the Tornado 2's underside on this hot June day. He was perfectly content to not answer the door and not answer the phone and not rehang the picture frames that he'd knocked off all the walls. He was _perfectly content_.

But, how much longer could he take that _throb, throb, throb _of his stinging arm?

Ring. Ring. Ring.

Groaning, he gave a defeated roll of the eyes and slid out from underneath the Tornado 2, his tails barely not catching in the wheels of the old skateboard that was his only lab assistant. Pushing himself off the ground, he just let the phone ring and ring itself sore. It wasn't that he couldn't find the phone buried beneath his research papers and blueprints that shared rent with the phone on the tiny table. He knew where it was.

He wished he could lose it. Lose that damn phone. Then, nobody would call him. Can't call someone who don't own a phone, he figured. Taking a tissue from the open _Kleenex_, he read the caller ID and sighed, wishing he only had the balls to just unplug the phone and throw it to the ocean.

It was Cream again.

Cream and her mother were so stubborn. At least Amy was selfish enough to get caught up in her own feelings so as to leave him alone, but not Cream. Cream had to be generous. Nurturing.

He wouldn't answer the phone.

She'd get the hint.

And tomorrow, if he did answer the front door when she came knocking with an invitation to tea and cakes after dinner, he'd lie and tell her he was so caught up with working in the lab that he never heard the phone.

After all, that was his story up til now. She hadn't doubted it.

Yet.

Of course, this only mattered if he answered the door. What were you doing? What do you mean? I called you. I was busy.

How many times had they had that conversation in the school hallways?

That was, if he went to school at all. These days seemed to be consumed with taking down pictures, burying possessions in boxes with other possessions and time spent in this claustrophobic garage of a lab, with that plane of his.

Except, the plane wasn't his. Not really. He hadn't built it for himself.

But, the person he only ever made so many useless inventions for wasn't around to use them anymore. Not that . . . _that person _knew how to properly abandon him. That person had left behind pictures of the two in the hallway. That person left behind an unmade bed and a few, precious, possessions. Two books of maps he always looked at. Two books of maps he drew little lonely pencil lines all over. Two books of maps that hadn't been finished.

The phone was still ringing.

Ring. Ring. Ring.

The blood dripped.

But, it wasn't like that person chose to leave behind his books.

The oil dripped.

It wasn't like that person chose to leave the books unfinished.

The sink leaked. It dripped.

It wasn't like that person had a _choice_ at all.

_Drip. _

_Drip._

_. . . Drip. _

In that exact procession.

Ring. Ring. Ring. The phone merrily rang out before dying. Then, the voice mail clicked over and it was unbearable to hear that person's voice.

"Hey," they started. "You've reached Tails' place, but he's too lazy to record his message. So, you just got the disembodied voice of Sonic. _Ooh_, scary. Anyway, leave your name and number and why don't you tell Tails why you're bugging him? Ha. Later."

BEEP.

It was a lonely sound.

He rinsed out the cut on his arm, and turned the sink off hard. It didn't drip. His arm didn't drip. He took down the roll of bandages.

"Tails," Cream. "I know you're probably listening to this right now . . . So, why don't you pick up the phone?"

There was silence as the girl's voice waited.

Almost-silence. He could hear her breathe.

"Tails?" She weakly asked. "Are you there? You . . ." Her voice broke. "You can't just ignore life. You can't just-just . . . You can't just ignore me."

He was thirteen years old, and he felt eight again. He felt helpless without that person. Which was pretty pathetic, he thought. He couldn't bear to even think that person's name. But, he couldn't help it. Without that person here, life just seemed so much grayer. The white bandage on his arm felt tight. His throat felt tight and his eyes were still burning-stinging from all of the crying he'd done this week.

Cream's voice came back, "I know Sonic died. I know how upset you are. But, I can't help but think . . ." she broke down, he could hear her semi-restrained sob. In his mind's eye, he could even see her convulsing while tears rained down from her face. "With the way you're acting. I can't help but think you died, too."

There was an angry hanging up of the phone. But, the message was recorded.

Maybe he did die. Maybe he was just dying.

He couldn't make up his mind.

But, he missed Sonic.

Maybe he would get over it.

He lay down on the skateboard, ready to finish the repairs, when the oil plodded down again. With a sound.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

Yeah, maybe he would just get over it.

**The End**

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A/N: Um . . . So, what did you think? =3

You know, you just gotta love my ultimately original story ideas. I'm just so original with the content, ya know? Sonic dies! Tails is sad! It's never been done before! You're just reading text on a computer . . . So, you can't hear how sarcastic I'm being.

Anyway, I do hope you liked it all the same.

Tell me what you thought with a . . . Drum roll puh-leez . . . A REVIEW! :D *Spontaneous uncontrollable fanfare* Thank you, thank you. I appreciate all of your reviews!

Lates Mates,

Sweet Valentine Vampire

P.S. I am noticing quite a theme with my writing. And that theme is "angst." Didn't you see what it says at the top of the page? Written by: Sweet Valentine Vampire, author of ten stories (well, eleven now). Hey, how 'bout this for a thought . . . Go read my other ten stories!

It's like they say . . . A Sweet Valentine Vampire fanfic a day keeps the boogie man away! ;)


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